The End of the Peace
by Atanatar Alcarin
Summary: As the Necromancer grows in power in Dol Guldur, the White Council bides its next move. An exploration of the events that transpired from the time of the Necromancer's return to his final expulsion from Mirkwood by the White Council.
1. Chapter 1 The Shadow of Mirkwood

**The End of the Peace**

**The Shadow of Mirkwood**

**NOTES: From the time of Sauron's return to Greenwood the Great (TA 2460) up to the time of the White Council's attack on Dol Guldur (TA 2941), roughly 480 years had elapsed. Here, though, I tried to compress the most pivotal events within that period as though they happened only in a span of months. I've added some events which, though never mentioned in canon or in Tolkien's earlier drafts, do not necessarily mean that they **_**never**_** happened, and thus including them will not alter the eventual outcome of the War of the Rings.**

DISCLAIMER: Everything that is familiar to you, I have no hand in creating. All credit goes to J.R.R. Tolkien and his son, Christopher.

"My lady," the sentry called behind the balcony. "Curunír has left in haste. He wished to stay longer but he says he has urgent matter at hand. But Mithrandir is still here."

Galadriel did not speak, for already she knew. Standing at the top of the dais, she looked over the distant woods east of Lothlórien, out into the gathering gloom of Dol Guldur. The dark clouds that overhung it stood starkly against the yellow of the setting sun.

"My lady?"

"Yes. I will speak with him," she said, turning to face the sentry.

The elf did not respond, but bowed his head slightly. Swiftly he strode out into the wooded canopy that spread behind the balcony. Galadriel turned her sight once more to the untamed lands that spanned the distance between her realm and the dark hill of Dol Guldur, where once a Necromancer dwelt. She recalled the days of old, when the trees that bordered what used to be Greenwood the Great swayed like bristles of grass before gently blowing winds. But now there stood only a mass of darkened leaves; the trees were wide and thick, their limbs contorted into a hideous embrace, while their gnarled roots clawed menacingly towards the grasslands beyond. Mirkwood, they call it now, as indeed it is, for now it has been darkened by the foul growth and fell creatures that have spawned since the evil's return. For once again, Dol Guldur is alive under some nameless power.

"You wish to see me?" Gandalf said as he came up from behind.

Galadriel turned to face him. Looking at the wizened old man, he appeared more weary than ever, the cares of Middle-earth clearly laden on his face. With bright eyes she beamed at him.

Gandalf returned a weak smile. He stood beside Galadriel at the high balcony. He knew they were in the highest mallorn tree in all of Caras Galadhon, for he could see the tops of countles towering mallorn trees spread in every direction. But his smile faded into a grim expression as his gaze fell on the dreary sight of Dol Guldur. Dark clouds hung ominously over the ruined fortress. A strong breeze seemed to blow from the west, but this did nothing to cast off the thick, black haze that hovered over the darkened hill.

"The wood is being poisoned, Mithrandir," Galadriel spoke gravely. "The evil power that had once fled has now returned. Indeed, its reach has grown great; for even as we speak, its venom is spreading across the forest, corrupting everything in its path. Already, messengers from Thranduil have come, bearing news of orcs attacking the borders of their realm in ever increasing boldness. Fell creatures have multiplied in the deep covers of Greenwood, and the Men of Rhovanion will no longer enter so willingly."

Gandalf recalled the day when he first entered the labyrinthine pits of the old fortress, when the nameless being that wrought its sorcery there had fled from him, thus beginning the four-hundred years of Watchful Peace. But all that is ended, now that the Necromancer has returned.

"I fear this is the very same power that we have driven long ago, only now more powerful," Gandalf said. "The scope of defilement that emanates from Dol Guldur tells me so."

"Nay. I fear it may be Sauron himself that now dwells in that hill."

Gandalf looked at the Noldorin lady. The name of the Enemy always bode ill, and the very suggestion of his return disheartened him, for they knew that they were as yet unprepared to meet a resurgent Sauron. "We cannot be certain. Not yet. Though we have the choice to act now, to thrust the Necromancer out of his hiding, doing so would prevent us from learning its identity. For I fear much as you have: that indeed this could very well be Sauron in disguise. We must distinguish this Necromancer from Sauron himself, for if indeed they are one and the same, then we are in much greater peril than we realize."

He looked into the distant hill opposite the Anduin, and with sharp eyes looked as if he were trying to pierce beyond the veils that shrouded it. "I must enter Dol Guldur."

The Lady turned to face him. And briefly it seemed to her that in Gandalf's worn countenance she beheld a shadow of the ancient days, where once she had looked upon the faces of the Spirits Divine that dwelt beyond the Circles of the World, for indeed that was what Gandalf was: a messanger from the West. But now she warned him gravely: "To enter it now would be more perilous than ever", she said, "and even more so if indeed it is Sauron that has taken residence there."

"Nonetheless, it is a risk I must take," said Gandalf. "All actions we take against the evil in Mirkwood would be futile, unless we learn its identity."

Galadriel looked sidelong at the wizard, and smiled broadly at him, and she said, "Mithrandir. Always you were the one burdened with a knack for trouble and danger."

Gandalf looked amused as well, though whether this was due to his foolishness or to the Lady's rare moments of jest, he could not tell. "Well, my lady," he said, his cheerful voice abruptly ligthing up the seriousness of the matter. "It is only proper, I believe, that someone should look into our problem in Mirkwood. And," he added jestingly as he prepared to leave, "I must insist you keep this from Saruman, lest he thinks I have turned most unbecoming of a wizard."

At this, the Lady gave a hearty laugh. Suddenly, as if brushed by silken feathers, Gandalf felt the Elf-Lady's warm soft hands alighting on his own calloused ones. "If things had gone as I had hoped, you would have been made Head of the Council at my behest," she said. "Alas! It was not meant to be so. But now I see purpose beyond the failure of my design. For Curunír has become accustomed to the comforts and prestige of his office, studying the arts of the Enemy from a safe distance in Orthanc, and in so doing, can no longer trust him to do the things you are wont. For what advantage would we have against the Enemy if not for your labours?"

Gandalf smiled, for indeed that was what he could only return. "Well, the hour is getting late. I'm afraid I need to be on my way! I'll return when I can."

Looking one last time at the gathering clouds over Dol Guldur, he turned and left, descending swiftly from the dais into the long flight of steps that led to the lower parts of the City.

Galadriel watched him as he left, her eyes keen as starlight.

"_Namárië_."


	2. Chapter 2 Relics from Eregion

**NOTES: Saruman was Head of the Council, so he must have journeyed to Rivendell a number of times. I have always wondered how exchanges must have been between Saruman and Elrond outside the official White Council meetings, especially during the time of the Necromancer's return to Dol Guldur. The lore surrounding the making of the Rings of Power must have bored heavily on Saruman, who at this time must have begun fancying himself as a counterweight to the Necromancer's growing power. Well, this is how I envisioned one of their non-Council meetings. I hope you find this to your liking. Reviews are always welcome, good or bad!**

**Relics from Eregion**

Saruman's horse trotted slowly across the stone bridge that led to Elrond's house. Glancing to his side, he saw the massive cliffs to which Imladris clung, standing perilously like mountain sentinels, shielding the ancient refuge. The sound of a thousand waterfalls played ceaselessly on his ears, great fountains from the Misty Mountains that now came crashing precipitously into the fords below. The warm rays of the early morning sun shone on the cliff faces, their smooth stones scintillating like jewels.

_Imladris. _Despite having seen it many times before, he still remains fascinated by the deceptive power behind Rivendell's endurance. Set against the more fortified structures of Círdan's shipyards in Mithlond, Elrond's sanctuary appeared modest and unimposing, softened by the mountain woods that nestled it. But he knew the quaintness belied its rich history, its halls having been graced by many of the greatest lords and ladies of the Eldar.

Arriving at the other end of the bridge, a male elf clad in dark-blue robes came to meet him. "Greetings, my lord! Master Elrond has been expecting you. I trust you had a safe journey?"

"So far," Saruman replied. "But things change fast these days. The shadows have grown longer, with less and less roads remaining safe for travel. I have taken the safer route west of the Misty Mountains, away from Mirkwood." His long white hair fell to his shoulders as he alighted from his horse.

"Very well. I will escort you to him," the elf said, and together they walked across the stone courtyard, up onto the staircase that led to the upper chambers. Two statues fashioned in the likeness of elven lords towered silently on each side of the stairs. As they climbed, they heard the soft music of elf minstrels, their melodious voices echoing gently among the gardens. But Saruman dismissed them from thought, as it was not for leisure that he came to Imladris, but on more serious matters.

They stepped into a spacious interior illuminated by many candles. There in the center stood Elrond Half-elven. Garbed in deep blue velvet robes, his long black hair resting on his shoulders, he appeared more regal than any king of the West.

Saruman gave a slight bow to his host. "I must say, the courtesy of your house never seem to lose its touch," Saruman quipped, and he let his staff lean on one of the tables near him.

"Curinír," smiled Elrond, and he returned the wizard's gesture. "Much as I appreciate such remarks, I do not think you came all the way from Isengard to tell me that. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Saruman let out a laugh, though his laughter seemed bereft of genuine mirth. Then swiftly he went to business. "Indeed, I have come to discuss certain matters. Things of rather great import," he said. His voice trailed on those last words as he gave a slight look towards the elf who accompanied him. Elrond nodded towards the elf. Bowing low, the elf swiftly took his leave.

Elrond turned back to the wizard. "What is it, Curinir? What news from Galadriel?"

"I have not seen the Lady, not since the Council's last meeting. But I have been to Eregion."

"Eregion?" said Elrond, sounding greatly surprised.

"Yes. In Ost-in-Edhil, the old fastness where once the Brotherhood of Jewel-smiths had lived, and where Celebrimbor himself had fashioned the Great Rings," replied Saruman in a low voice. Elrond did not answer immediately, but somehow he sensed the wizard's purpose.

"Ost-in-Edhil... it is in ruins now. Sauron had it destroyed as his army advanced through Eriador," said Elrond. "There is nothing there."

"So I thought," Saruman continued. "But lo!, upon exploration I found a collapsed passage, and only partly. I entered it, and that was how I came upon a large vault, set in the deepest levels of the stronghold. It was badly burnt. Yet it was there that I came upon an important finding." He stopped abruptly. Then he walked closer to Elrond, and when he was nearly at arm's length, he said: "It appears that Celebrimbor and his smiths, since coming to Ost-in-Edhil, have kept records of everything they have made. Some, indeed, even laid out the arts used in their fashioning."

Then Saruman reached under his robes, revealing a cluster of partially burnt scrolls. He held them out to Elrond, who carefully took them. Elrond slowly unfurled one of the scrolls. He read without speaking.

"It is a record of their crafting," said Saruman. "One of the Seven Rings."

Elrond rolled the parchment back. Slowly, he walked towards the balcony.

"It is every interesting, what they reveal. For one of them, verily from among those in your hands now, clearly mention their having brought such copies to Imladris. For that was what transpired, did it not, Elrond?" Saruman asked testily, and there was a tinge of desire in his voice, an eagerness perceptible only to the very discerning.

Elrond remained silent for a while, as if recalling from distant memories. "It was a desperate struggle," he said at last. "Sauron's army was closing in on Ost-in-Ehil, and the much awaited aid from Gil-galad was still too far away. Celebrimbor, seeing no hope of reprieve, had ordered many of his craftsman to leave for Imladris, while he and a few loyal contingents prepared to defend Ost-in-Edhil to the death. And terrible was their end indeed, as Celebrimbor himself was made an example by the Enemy, having hung his body on a pole to be carried as a banner. But as for the fleeing Gwaith-i-Mírdain, you are correct: For they brought every record they could salvage from their smithies, including those involving the Great Rings."

At that, Saruman's eyes darkened. "And you spoke nothing of this to me? I, the Head of the Council?" he said, his tone changing as of a lord demanding dues from its vassal.

Elrond now turned to face him. "There is reason why I have kept this matter in secret. For if such knowledge were to fall into the hands of the Enemy, the surviving Elven realms will be in great peril."

"And yet in peril we will still find ourselves in, were that knowledge to have been kept within Elven lore," Saruman retorted, and he stepped closer to Elrond. "Knowledge of the Rings of Power, of the arts that went into their making: these are glimpses into the arts of the Enemy himself. And that is why such knowledge is all the more crucial to _us_, for only by studying the Enemy can we hope to forestall his devices."

Elrond gazed silently at the rushing waters. The echoes of the minstrel's music blended with the sound of waterfalls, and for a moment that was all that could be heard.

Saruman broke the silence. "An ancient shadow reaches out across Mirkwood," he warned, and his voice was filled with foreboding. "Its very essence defiles everything in its reach. Indeed, we may be facing a glint of Sauron's return, for with the survival of the Ruling Ring, so had Sauron, and his return is inevitable. And yet by our collective wisdom we may as yet be able to thwart his designs, if indeed he has returned. We know not if it is _he_ who now dwells in Dol Guldur, but neither can we discount the possibility."

Elrond silently gave thought to this, and he was deeply troubled, for during the long peace when Sauron had slept, the Keepers of the Rings wielded the Three in secret, preserving the memories of old, and warding off the decays of Middle-earth, so that under the care of its keepers no age or weariness came upon their realms. Greatly did they hide what remaining knowledge they possessed on the Rings of Power, hoping that in secrecy the surviving Elven realms will flourish. But now the Shadow has returned, and as its power grows, all fate draws to a close. And to Elrond, it seemed the Eldar are now faced with only one of two choices: to either divulge their knowledge of the Great Rings to the Istari, or to keep it secret, locked in memory and lore. But either road, he must choose.

At last, Elrond spoke: "The Elves will not lightly part this knowledge on the Great Rings, even to those who count themselves as foes of the Enemy, or to the Wise even. For the Rings of Power are perilous indeed, they being the very artifacts of Celebrinbor, whose works have been tainted by no less than the Enemy himself."

But Saruman reassured him. "We are driven towards a common goal, both the Istari and the Eldar, and that it is to bring a lasting end to the menace of Sauron; for to no other end must this lead, unless it be our own."

"So be it, then," said Elrond. "I will show them to you."


	3. Chapter 3 The Craftsman's Hand

**The Craftsman's Hand**

The stack of manuscripts felt strangely weightless in his hands, with the slightest of pressure seemingly poised to tear them. Many bore badly burnt edges, a testament to the ravages of Sauron. Yet by fate or chance, little damage was inflicted on the writings themselves.

Saruman read in passing a few of the sheets piled at the top. A quick glance and he knew they dealt with other matters: armouries and metallurgy, of mining and gem cutting; one even accounted for a detailed trade with the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. Ever and anon, he will come upon some obscure author, but none of which he was seeking. But now, as he scoured under the pile, his eye caught the title on one of the sheets. Written in Quenya in dark blue ink, it read:

_Of the Seven Rings_

Quickly, Saruman turned to the flowing Elvish inscriptions written below, and he read thus:

_Seven Rings we made first, and they were to be the first among our many labours. Daunting indeed were our early attempts, for scarce knowledge we had in the art of forging rings of power. And though we have already made many other rings, they held but little power, and their intended effects were of minor bearing. But now we began a great labour, for with Annatar's promise of greater knowledge and skill, our hearts were kindled, and we now endeavored to create rings of power like never before._

_To such endeavor, credit must be given to the peerless skill of Aumedril. He it was who first designed the bands of the Seven Rings, and he it was who forged them to their present form._ _From tin were the bands made, and, upon cooling, Aumedril carved to their surfaces lines made of gold, shaped in angled patterns; and the lines of one side echoed that of the other, so that the same pattern can be seen whichever side the beholder looks. The crowns later were set in place by Elgirios, a craftsman with no less skill than Aumedril. And by his craft, he forged the crowns of the Seven Rings into rectangular shapes, fashioning them with such skill so that the crowns had in fact ten sides. But the stones themselves were of __zircon__, __blue as water__, and it was to that task that I, Celebrimbor, had poured all my skill and lore; for seeing the beauty of the works of Aumedril and Elgirios, no less than gems beyond likeness should be set upon their crowns. Long I laboured towards the desired brilliance. Indeed, many times have I been forced to abandon gems midway through their making, for I committed many errors; and the stones will suffer no correction. But lo! in the end, I succeeded. And my heart rejoiced, for indeed they were marvelous to behold, as the countless facets of each gem scintillated as water under the morning sun._

_But in all our labours, Annatar was ever present; always in every step he gave counsel, and they were deeply invaluable. Many secrets he revealed in the art of metalwork and in the cutting of gems: for it was he who revealed how different tempers of heat can bring about the various shades in gems; and he it was who told of the various proportions metals can be mixed, that they may create even stronger ones._

_Yet as our work progressed, it became frequent for Annatar to ask Aumedril or Elgirios to hand him the rings, that he may look upon their beauty. Long he would gaze at them, and (as Elgirios and Aumedril recounted to me), the rings appeared to emit a soft glow in his hands. But they themselves could not tell for certain, for in the glaring fire of their smithies their vision may have been sullied. But now Annatar gave instructions to Elgirios and Aumedril that he be informed in each stage of the forging. And to this, I was rather surprised, or else seemed strange to me, for whereas before Annatar would generally defer to my directions, giving only at most his counsel and insight, now he seemed to wish a more active role, and his insistence on this matter seemed perturbing._

Saruman laid down the parchment, and for a long while was deep in thought. _An account on the Rings of Power, written by the hand of no less than Celebrimbor himself_. And he relished at the privilige of being among the few to read the work of one so renowned among the Elves, on matters so deep and crucial that the fate of Middle-earth itself is tied to their lore. But anger he felt also, and scorn, for the pride of the Eldar in keeping such knowledge from him. And he did not forget it.

But now he turned his attention to Celebrimbor's account concerning the Nine Rings, and they, too, were written in the same fashion: for it told of the appearance and design of the rings, of the gems that were used, as well as the manner in which they were cut. And it read:

_From unsullied silver was forged the band of each of the Nine Rings. Forming part of the crown were claws that held each stone in place, and the stones themselves were of __cornelian__, __red as blood__. But the chief beauty of each ring was not on the innate elegance of the gems, though a great part it certainly lent, but rather from the cut of each stone, for each was crafted individually, so that no two stones were exactly alike._

_The shape of the band was made by Aumedril, and the crowns were fashioned by Elgirios, while the stones I had crafted myself. But Annatar had part in all stages of their making, and when all was done, Annatar himself spoke to me the words that would transform them into Rings of Power. And he whispered to me the ancient words. Strange indeed was the tongue he had used, for though some were in Elvish, here and there were many words that sounded alien to me, and in full I could not comprehend them. But now he bade me to speak them forth in the manner he had uttered, and, with Annatar holding the rings in his hands, I spoke the words as he had done. Then Annatar spoke it again, and for a moment the rings seemed to shimmer like living jewels in his opened hands, and their scintillation shone throughout the darkened hall. And then it was gone._

Then Saruman took thought at this. And he took attention to the name. _Annatar_. For always in every stage of the Rings' forging, Annatar was present. And he it was who always made the final step in transforming what began as ordinary rings into genuine Rings of Power. But then the wizard saw through the name, and with wisdom beyond that of Men he knew him. _Sauron_.

"Annatar. The Lord of Gifts."

Saruman turned from his seat, and he saw Elrond standing near the door of the library. "That was the name Sauron had used when he first appeared to the Elves in Eregion, claiming himself to be a messanger from the West. Verily, a guise he used extremely well, up until the final act of treachery, when he slipped the One Ring on Orodruin."

Saruman replied darkly. "Long have I considered Sauron's indispensability in the forging of the lesser rings, especially in the final stages of their crafting. But now, from what Celebrimbor have written, it appears his involvement was much deeper. But now at last have I come to understand the reason for Sauron's watchful presence during the making of the Seven and the Nine."

"What do you mean, Curunír?"

"I find it surprising this thought has eluded you, these having been in your hands for so long," Saruman retorted, and there was a hint of gloating in his voice.

But now his face became very grave, and with his black eyes he looked at Elrond. "Do you not see? There is reason other than mere observance Sauron kept a close watch during their forging. For each time that Sauron was present, he casts the incantation, thereby binding the lesser rings ever more closely to him. Whether he touches it or not is, I believe, immaterial; for the rings would have been tainted in the end. Yet now it is apparent that Sauron insisted in actually touching the rings, for his intent was to have his power physically _pass_ into them, that he may be able to influence them more directly. But it was the final incantation, those very words that Sauron spoke on Orodruin when he took up the One Ring: those words served as the final noose that brought all the lesser rings under the dominion of the One."

"Sauron's origin reaches back beyond the beginning of the World," spoke Elrond. "The same is true of his knowledge. His vast store of wisdom on earthly substances had made him most appealing to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, who above all else desired mastery in craftsmanship. Yet it is my belief that without Sauron, never could the Gwaith-i-Mírdain have succeeded in creating the Rings of Power, for he alone, it seems, knew in entirety the art of forging such artifacts."

"And yet Celebrimbor succeded in creating the Three without Sauron's aid," Saruman countered.

"True enough. But the arts Celebrimbor used came from Sauron, so that the Three, though untouched by his malice, nevertheless remain bound to the One."

Laying the parchment back onto the stack of manuscripts, Saruman stood from his seat. "And to that matter must I come to now," he said as he walked towards Elrond. "For I find it strange that Celebrimbor would write so prolifically on the Seven and the Nine, and yet nothing on the Three."

Elrond did not answer, but Saruman pressed. "It is no secret that that Elves have hidden the Three the moment Sauron's intentions were bared. You are deemed learned in the history of your people, Elrond. Surely, you must know something of their fate?" And saying this, there was a gleam in his eyes.

But Elrond only answered him: "No living elf knows to whom Celebrimbor has entrusted them. And even if I did, it would be foolish to reveal where they are, or the identities of their wielders. Not in these dark times."

Then Saruman turned very grave indeed, and for a moment he was silent. "I see." And he walked past Elrond towards the corridor.

"It seems the Elves have not lost their penchant for secrecy, even when among friends. Yet secrecy is understandable. For verily we have entered into darker times, and it would be unwise to divulge such secrets now, lest the Enemy gets hold of them." But then he turned and grabbed his staff, which he had left leaning in a corner. "Alas! I'm afraid I must leave."

"Where to?" asked Elrond in surprise.

"To the east."

"I don't suppose you will be returinng soon?"

"No. Not for a while."

The wizard was halfway through the passage when Elrond called. "Curunír," he said, and the wizard turned to face him. "These matters we have discussed ... they should never leave these walls."

"Of course," Saruman replied curtly. He then turned towards the passage that led to the main hall, and, without another word, he was gone.

**END NOTES: Aumedril [aw-mhed-dril] and Elgirios [ehl-gee-ree-os] are completely original characters that I have made for this story (however passing their roles are). Despite Celebrimbor's indisputable skill in gem crafting, I always thought it unlikely that he **_**literally**_** did all the labor from start to finish. Of course, Celebrimbor, being the master craftsman of Eregion, would naturally be the one to fashion the gems themselves, they, after all, being the centerpiece of any ring. But it is not entirely implausible that another Elvish craftsman could have been responsible for the fashioning of the crowns, or the bands for that matter.. It was that idea that actually struck me to write this chapter.**

**As for my description of the Seven and the Nine: NO, they are not canon. Indeed, Tolkien remained rather vague on their appearance, having only revealed that each one had a gem on top. Thus, I had to base my description on the Peter Jackson films, more specifically on the reproduction made by Noble Collection ( . ).**


	4. Chapter 4 The Eye of the Enemy

**NOTES: One of the most magical things in The Lord of the Rings is the Mirror of Galadriel. It's like Tolkien's counterpart to the "magic mirror" in Grimm's fairy tales, only more mystical and eloquent. Although in the book, she used the Mirror only once to show visions to both Frodo and Sam, it is unlikley that **_**that**_** was the only instance she used it. I believe she gazed upon it many times before, and from there learned a great deal, which would explain why she seems to know much more than even some of the greatest of her kindred, such as Elrond, or her husband even. I've always wondered what she saw in her previous glimpses into the Mirror. They could be worth an entire book.**

**The Eye of the Enemy**

Galadriel walked soundlessly towards the open glades. The air was cool and damp; the grass moist. No song or sound could be heard except the soft rustling of leaves. The moon was veiled in thin gray clouds, but high on the horizon blazed the Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar, its seven stars curving in a mighty arc. Across the sky, countless stars sprawled from end to end, broken only by the occasional clouds, and their soft light filtered through the mighty canopies that roofed Lothlórien's glades.

Quietly, Galadriel walked bare foot across the grassy earth. The graven images of Elven lords and ladies marked her path, and in silent repose they stood guard over her realm. But coming upon a raised ridge of earth was a flight of steps; swiftly now she descended, until finally she came upon a low glade, bordered by the massive roots of mallorn trees that encircled it. A silent stream flowed from one of the roots, its silver waters flickering under the evening light. In the middle stood a carved relief, laced in intricate patterns of branching roots, upon which a silver basin was set. But high above, the sky was kindled with the innumerable stars, and underneath them, the glade seemed to glow with a soft light.

The night seemed clear, but with foresight she sensed a gathering storm, and her heart was troubled.

_So now it comes to this_, she thought. Slowly, she walked towards the basin, and looking over it saw a pool of water, its surface motionless as glass. Like a mirror, the stars shone on its surface in still reflection.

For a long while Galadriel saw nothing. But then, ever so subtly, the waters rippled, as if a gentle breeze came blowing through. Yet there was no wind, for the air was still. But now, gazing at the water, she saw vague shapes take form. And she saw the shape of trees, tall and thick, but they were thorned and tangled; and underneath their contorted limbs she caught sight of Orcs marching in great legions, and it appeared as if they were heading towards a dark hill. But quickly the vision changed, so that now it seemed as if she were fleeting across the vast, barren wastelands of the Rhûn, far off in the distant east; treeless hills rose like little mounds over its desolate fields, and seemingly it stretched for leagues upon leagues, so that she thought it would never end. But then from a great distance, far off on a mountain unnamed, it seemed as if an impenetrable shadow blotted its slopes; and it seemed to change and grow.

Then swifly, the scene changed. A great city of stone and wood set upon the slopes of a lone mountain. But then flames consumed her sight, and a winged beast of vast size and strength cast its fleeting shadow over the burning city; and from its mouth there issued fire and death, and its eyes burned like cold embers of malice. Then, swiftly as it came, the vision disappeared; mists shrouded the water. But now, clearing slowly, she beheld thick snow over broad swathes of land, and all across them roamed great wolves, white as the snow about them; in great numbers they burst through the frozen fields.

Then the water rippled once more. Slowly, she saw the tangled woods again, and the ruined fortress beyond; and she knew, for it was Dol Guldur. Then night came, and the water darkened. Then she beheld a great river, gleaming under the pale moon. But on the opposite bank there stood nine shapes astride nine steeds, and they were all in black; unmoving, the were arrayed in perfect line; but in their withered hands they held aloft long, gray blades, and in unison they raised it menacingly. Behind them, hidden beneath the trees, she saw what seemed to be legions upon legions of Orcs. And now those nine shapes began to march forward, and it seemed as if they were going to cross the river. Then suddenly, a great fire burst across the surface of the water, its flames blotting out all other images; constantly now the water rippled. But amidst this fire, a gaping hole slowly emerged: a slit of nothingness, and it took on the shape a flaming eye, great and terrible. But the slit kept roving about.

Galadriel did not move, her eye fixed on the water. And it seemed as if the burning eye sought to crush her will, its mind seeking feverishly to probe her own.

But in her head she heard its voice. And it reeked with Death, for it spoke in the Black Tongue, saying: _"Foolish seer. You seek to probe the mind of which you cannot fathom, for I am without depth. But yours shall be as an open book to me, and before my thoughts your spirit shall quail as a shrivelled mind."_

And verily she was nearly overcome by the immense power of its will, for indeed no mortal could have withstood its onslaught. But no mere mortal was she. A daughter she was of Finarfin, noblest of the House of Finwë, whose kindred had seen the Light of old before the coming of the Sun and Moon, and by the might of her own will, she strove against its malice.

In challenge she said: "Shadow of Morgoth, your return is in vain, for in the Void your doom still awaits."

But the lidless eye laughed vilely. _"Elf fool! Do you think I am blind to the nature of your kindred, even if I do not see you in full? But not for long will you remain unseen, for in the fullness of time all minds shall be laid bare to my thoughts."_

"Not before the Void claims you."

No words came from the roving eye. Rather, the vile thought now sought to overwhelm her with the force of its malice, seeking to expose her identity; but Galadriel would not give ground. And together still, their wills strove in contention.

Wisps of smoke began to curl from the water. Slowly, the stars wheeled above the glade, and as the moon peered over its veiling clouds, the first sound of nightingales broke through the silence of Lothlórien.

And then Galadriel relaxed her thought, for the Eye was gone. Long she stared at the water in the basin; now only half-filled, the heat of the Eye having turned the rest into vapor.

But looking up, Galadriel beheld the ancient stars, brilliant in their numberless points. Nowhere to be seen was the Valacirca, but in its place shone Menelmacar, the Swordsman of the Sky, its shining belt grafting a mighty course across the northern sky. And in spite of her exhaustion, she smiled.

_There is still hope_.

**END NOTES: The Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar, probably corresponds to the seven brightest stars in the constellation of Ursa Major, or the Big Dipper.**

**As for Galadriel's vision of a winged beast of "terrible size and strength," of which underneath was a burning city, it was in fact a foreshadowing of Smaug's desecent on Erebor on TA 2770 (some 300 years after the depicted scene), or more specifically, his attack on Dale on that same year.**

**The part of the vision where Galadriel saw white wolves rampaging across the fields refers to the Fell Winter of 2911, when White Wolves invaded Eriador from the North.**


	5. Chapter 5 The Hill of Sorcery

**The Hill of Sorcery**

Gandalf peered behind the trunk of a large, badly gnarled tree. He looked around him furtively, as though fearful of some watchful eyes. There was none. But here, in these parts of the Great Forest, nothing is ever unwatched.

The wizard took off his tattered hat, and as he gave it a gentle tap, a fine cloud of dust showered from it. "Dirtier than I thought," Gandalf muttered.

He craned his head. Looking overhead, he saw speckles of the sun's light desperately trying to pierce through the brambled tree tops. The place was deeply unlovely. In the early days, he could roam under Greenwood's twisting forest paths and still feel the warm sun on his cloak; even under the thick growth of summer, where the leaves would grow in lush clusters among the treetops, the sun's rays could still penetrate through the forest floor. But no longer. For by its new name, the once great forest of Greenwood now implied a new thing: a dark cover of growth, inhabited still by life, but not beauty. Mirkwood.

Everywhere he looked, the trees were in a ruined state, a sad echo of their once majestic youth. Gnarled branches curled in around themselves, and wherever they could reach sought to strangle the limbs of others. Nameless weeds grew uncontrolled where the sun's feeble rays touched. A heavy air hung over the forest; here and there, one could smell pockets of foul odor, the smell of corrupted vegetation. Nothing flowered here. No song of bird or chirping of crickets. Nothing but the silent gaze of mutilated trees.

Gandalf planted his pointy hat back on his head. Quietly, he came behind a huge tree. He peered back, making sure no one was watching behind. He stepped onto one of the tree's oversized roots, trying to get a higher view. And as he peered cautiously, he beheld his destination: Dol Guldur.

Towering from a considerable distance, its broken spires rose like the shattered heads of a dead hydra. It looked completely abandoned. Not a sound or wind broke through its deathly stillness. Except it was not so. No. Something terrible lives there. Far more terrifying than the Great Worm that now sits in luxury at its hoard in Erebor.

"Who are _you_?" Gandalf breathed to himself. Without another word, he turned and went further ahead.

- - - - - - - o0o - - - - - - -

It seemed as if the forest itself was desperately seeking to isolate the venom emanating from Dol Guldur. The fortress was mounted on a jagged outcrop of earth, its sides hewn precipitously like cliffs. But the mound itself was not exceddingly high. It would not have been noticeable if not for the ominous ruins that straddled it. A long, crumbling bridge linked it to the rest of Mirkwood, its sole vein to the great forest.

All this Gandalf studied quietly from a distance. He was much closer now, only several hundred meters from the ruined stronghold. He knew the bridge was being watched. The Necromancer had many eyes; indeed, the Sorcerer of the hill may already be aware of his unwelcome guest. Quickly he turned about, and hurried across a thickly weeded path.

_If I'm right, the path would still hold_, he thought.

- - - - - - - o0o - - - - - - -

After what seemed like an hour of winding turns, the wizard finally came upon a mound of earth. It was a good distance from Dol Guldur, away from the direct gaze of whatever power held vigilance there. Behind an overhang of vines and thorned roots, there peered a large tunnel, dark and dank.

Gandalf smiled.

Though a formidable fortress, Dol Guldur was not as heavily fortified as is its mightier counterpart in Mordor: the Barad-dûr. Indeed, it may have not been so, even in its darker days. It was relatively open. Like an anthill, numerous chambers from below the fortress bore through the earthen mound that supported it, with exits that sprouted at various points near and around Dol Guldur –– ancient goblin tunnels, old as the fortress itself. But some led far away from it, some for a number of leagues. This was one such route.

Yet this tunnel was not overly long, stretching at best for only a few leagues from the outskirts of Dol Guldur. He knew, for he had used it before ... when he first entered its pits four centuries ago. But the Sorcerer would not reveal himself then, and it fled from him. But now he sensed that this would not be the case.

"Time to find out who you really are...," he whispered. Brushing aside the brambled vines, he stepped into the tunnel.


End file.
